Psithurism
by aXjoelle
Summary: Edward is a lonely soul enduring his empty existence; when he stumbles upon a young girl enslaved, can he bring her to life again? "Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know what life is, you who hold it in your hands." -T.S. Eliot. AU, vampires, canon pairings. Deleted and reimagined as of 05/16


each chapter has been completed in one sitting. hence the length.  
no more editing. no further rewrites. no additional alterations.  
this is a a little, rambling story jotted down during the occasionally available hours of 4-6 a.m., and she is no author.

_Un Petit Début_

_Oh, why won't he come? Did Alice say something to him about it tomorrow? Did he argue with Carlisle? _I _should never have agreed. He'll hate- _I selfishly cut off my attention to Esme's thoughts. She was needlessly tormenting herself, yet again, because of me. No Esme, I did not disagree with Carlisle, and I could never hate you.

_Then don't be such a crumb, and _say it with your mouth,_ Junior. _My inner consciousness was very aware of my despicable nature.

_Esme seems to be working herself up to a mighty storm, there, Captain. _The Major unnecessarily informed me. He worried about her. Esme was our sun.

_Edward, please at least attempt- _Carlisle was weary of me and my incessant unhappiness, despite his admirable internal efforts to convince himself otherwise.

_Edward you _have _to play! I want to _win_, and I won't if you don't come! _Alice's thoughts were so stormy it made me want to laugh. She had a vision stuck on a loop of how intolerably smug Emmett would be, should he best her once more.

_Moronic asshole. Why is everything always about him? Who the hell cares if Edward plays or not? _I _for one can't, and don't, give a flying f- _Rosalie's thoughts were not a step out of ordinary, nor wholly incorrect. Why did they care? I _had_ been the one to enthusiastically teach each of my siblings the game, but did that mean I had to participate in every following game for eternity? I knew why they cared, or, at least why they cared tonight. But, horribly, I held on to the hope that if I did not give Carlisle and Esme a satisfactory family farewell, I might not be forgotten so readily.

_You're already drifting off, Edward._ _We are a family, please don't exile yourself to the edges of it. _Funny, considering I was not the one doing the exiling. Being on the edge was an impossibility, no matter if I wished to be, or not. I heard every thought, every shame, and all the inner workings of this "family", and Carlisle knew it. Despite what he or Esme might think, I was not ever alone. The steady stream of voices in my head had been there without interruption for weeks now, and I struggled with my own thoughts, feeling as though they were growing dim.

_Hey, um, Ed? It's, ahem, not Rosie's fault you don't wanna come with us, right?...Or is it? _Emmett's humming and hawing was unnecessary, but he was attempting tactfulness. Ordinarily, he enjoyed being the blunt one who spoke the truth of what he thought, however, he was currently taking a psychology course at the university he was attending in Seattle and was planning to utilize Rose and I as his subjects for a project he had been assigned. He purposely refrained from telling Rose this, but had taken to silently interrogating me whenever Rose and I interacted. I had overheard him asking Jasper once how Rose and I really "felt" about one another, but Jasper had swiftly shot him down, saying that he wouldn't help Em cheat.  
Psychology was Jasper's forte, and it amused him to witness Emmett attempting it.

Alice wrapped her arms around one of mine, leaning against me and turning her forlorn face up to mine. She shut her eyes and watched as I debated whether to try and tactfully argue my case, rudely slink away like a sullen youth, or just give in and go along. Then she heaved a dramatic sigh, drawing everyone's eyes to her.

"Time to give up, Esme. It's a lost cause you're fighting for. Edward doesn't want to come. Something about needing to 'hear his own thoughts', or whatever." _You owe me. _

"Lame." Emmett grumbled, disappointed.

Esme attempted to hide her frown by giving me a hesitant smile. "Well, all right then, I suppose we'll just have to get along without you-" Rosalie snorted at this. "Have a nice night to yourself." Esme finished. She picked up her bat, playfully thumping me on the leg with it before joining Carlisle, who was already waiting for her by the Mercedes with Alice and Jasper.

I leaned against the wall, observing Rosalie who was seated in her new Lamborghini, tracing the steering wheel with an appreciative finger. She looked over at Emmett, considering for a moment the logistics of christening her new vehicle with him. He barely fit just sitting, and she decided against it with a sigh. As she looked my way, I was gifted with her lovely sneering smile and the parting endearment of _You know, there'd be plenty of peace and quiet on a desert island somewhere on the other side of the fucking world, you paunchy fucking jolt-head. _

It wasn't until the two cars, and the people in it, had disappeared from my head, as well as my sight, that I was able to relax. It required a large amount of mental effort to block out my family's thoughts, and I often had to keep a tight grip in my personal thoughts as well, making sure they did not stray to listening in on a private conversation. It brought a palpable mental and physical sense of relief to be left in silence.

I left the garage, wandering back inside. Perhaps rather predictably, I ended up in my piano room. It which was right off the living area, full of windows, of course, and fairly large, though empty excepting my piano and the armchair that Esme had absolutely insisted on arranging next to it. The windows offered a fair view of the forest river, though the light was often dim through the trees. The acoustics were pleasing.

It was not yet raining, though thunder rumbled through the air, promising it soon, and a cool breeze swept through the room.

Standing at the piano, I let my fingers fall very lightly onto the fragile keys, my hands softening, automatically adjusting themselves to the level of delicacy always required when playing. But I could not play, now.

Through music I had often succeeded in unraveling my intangible thoughts, placing them into an order that my convoluted mind could make sense of. That was not going to occur tonight. I did not want to sort anything out; I felt empty. I was tired of myself. I needed something of more importance to dwell on.

Still, I sat insistently down at my instrument, determined to get over myself. This might be the last time in a while that I sit alone in this room.

But not even the works of others could my interest, and after doggedly playing for another twenty minutes, I ceased.

I sat listlessly for a few moments, before bringing my fist down on the keys, causing a loud "BANG."

It satisfied me, being able to produce such a sound with so little effort.

Standing, I left, regretting that no fruit or enjoyment had been occurred there, and went to my bedroom.

I had intended to dig up an old vinyl record I had not listened to in quite some time, then lie on my couch and attempt to drift off, but my swift assent up the stairs had stirred in me an abrupt desire to feel the wind in my face.  
So instead I continued on past my music collection and stepped out the large window, a door really, on the far wall, letting myself fall to the damp earth below. I paused for a moment, considering. If I ran through the middle of the forest there was a chance I might run into my family, and while I would "hear" them before they sensed me, Alice might see me nearing long before.  
I debated between Portland, Seattle, Canada, or even California, but settled on Seattle. It was close and it would allow me to have my run without interference from my family. I liked the idea of being able to wander around downtown with less than the usual roaring ocean of thoughts. The reminder that I was about to go to _Seattle, _where there would be other _people, _made me flinch, but I was suddenly feeling restless, and so I focused onto a hope of discovering new music.

Running was ... exhilarating. And, against my will, a tacky smile began to creep its way onto my face. The air was thick with the smell of rain. That was one of the few benefits of living the life we chose; we often had to live in climates prone to precipitation, and the smell of a coming storm was always one of my favorites.

I had started out my run quite fast, pushing myself, but I had slowed after a while, allowing myself to enjoy it, to savor it; and so it was nearly an hour later that I reached Seattle. It was late enough that my odd arrival did not receive many odd glances, and I swiftly made my way through the streets, some bright and some dark, to an old two story bookstore.

This was one of my favorite places in Seattle. It was not open in the middle of the day, but instead housed the restless and the sleepless who wandered in the evening, into the early hours. The first floor was not really a bookstore, but had a bright, smoky atmosphere where alcohol and some coffee, dark, bitter stuff, not the popular Starbucks kind, was served. A surprising number of people were sprawled about, some sitting on stools at the bar and others lying about on the eclectic assortment of old couches, benches, and stuffed chairs.

The second story was my aim, and I quickly made my way to the back, where the old, rickety steps were. This floor was much quieter than the first. The sounds from below still came through, but it was muffled and comforting, bringing a sense of life instead of dead silence.

The lights were dimmer, and people quietly wandered about with their noses in books, or fingering through crates of old vinyl albums. A girl leaning contentedly on an old desk, the cash register, smiled shyly at me. The thoughts on this floor were peaceful, and stories floated through my head as they read.

I seated myself on a worn armchair in the back corner, focusing only on the thoughts directly around me.

_Well, we all make mistakes, dear, so just put it behind you. We should regret our mistakes and learn from them, but never carry them forward into the future with us_

A nervous boy lingered behind a shelf. He had never been here before and was unsure of where he was to pay. He didn't wish to appear foolish.

_Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,_

_for ever blest, since here did lie_

_and here with lissom limbs did run_

_beneath the Moon, beneath the Sun,_

_Lúthien Tinúviel_

_more fair than Mortal tongue can tell._

_Though all to ruin fell the world_

_and were dissolved and backward hurled;_

_unmade into the old abyss,_

_yet were its making good, for this―_

_the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea―_

_that Lúthien for a time should be._

A lady was curled up on a couch thirty feet away from me, her blonde hair was tangled and beginning to turn silvery white. A book dropped from her hands as they went limp in her slumber.

A nervous university student was anxiously seeking a title, pulling at his brown hair in frustration.

_Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,_

_And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts_

_An aimless smile that hovers in the air_

_And vanishes along the level of the roofs._

An old woman sat in a corner, her joints stiff and her mind young. She clutched a worn photograph: her and her husband. Tears softly fell from her eyes. He was with another tonight, she had learned, and her heart ached.

And I felt my age.

Slowly, I stood.

I sank slower still down next to her.

She was a little old lady, short and thin, wearing a simple, old fashioned dress, the kind I had not seen worn in many years. Her lonely face was wrinkled and whiter than it should have been, but her expression was sweet as she looked up at me.

"Young man," she warbled. "Do you have a love?" Her fingers tightened their hold on the old picture.

"No," I replied. "Are you available?"

A surprised laugh sprang out of her, her sorrows momentarily forgotten.

"You don't want an old lady like me," she batted a shaking hand at me. "You want a nice young girl with a pretty face and soft hair."

"That I do." I said, taking her hand and giving her what I hoped was a charming smile. She giggled, and I felt lighter.  
She lifted her hand to my face.

"You're a sweet boy." She murmured. Memories of her husband as a young man entered her mind. Memories of old movies, halting declarations, and sly kisses. Then she remembered her sorrow, her blue eyes becoming shiny.

I debated for a good twenty seconds before deciding _to hell with it, _and looped a careful arm around her, giving her ample time to pull away if she wished. I was not warm and comforting. I was the polar opposite. But I could try.

She sighed and leaned her head against me, closing her eyes.

"What is your name, sweet boy?" She murmured, clutching my arm to her.

"Edward Masen." I replied.

She smiled, her eyes still shut.

"A good name." She replied.

"What's yours?" I questioned. It was Clara.

"Clara Margaret Cooper." She responded. The photograph fluttered to the ground.

"Clara Margaret." She altered, softly.

Pressing a soft kiss to her feathery head, I asked, "Might I have the honor of your address, Ms. Clara?"

She stirred, chortling a bit at my formality.

"What'd you want that for, Mr. Masen?"

I shrugged. "You seem like an interesting person, and I'd like to write you, if it's not to presumptuous of me."

"1322 Oakwood Park, St Michael, Minnesota. I s'pose I'll be moving now, though." She frowned. "I'm in town visiting my granddaughter. Perhaps I'll move here."

She was wearied by our conversation, and I wondered how she had even made it up the steps to get here.

I said no more, but gently stroked her white hair, listening to her labored breathing as she fell asleep.

I looked down at her, a fiery hate for Walter Cooper and his callousness suddenly burning through me.  
I struggled to keep my muscles loose and my hands unclenched.  
The girl from the register was approaching and I held fragile Clara in my arms. I had to get a hold on myself.

"Hello," The girl's voice was no more than a whisper as she looked down at us. "Um, I just thought you might like to know, that's Clara's granddaughter, Shirley." She pointed towards the sleeping blonde woman I had noticed earlier. "She'll take care of Clara." The girl looked down at Clara, her brow furrowing, her thoughts pitying. She looked back at me. "Shirley's a real nice lady." She reassured me. And I was glad.

Carefully, I picked Clara up, cradling her as I stood. Following the register girl, well, her name was Sarah, to the couch where Shirley slept.

"They've had a tough time." Sarah said sadly, watching as I settled Clara on the other end of the couch. "But they'll be just fine." She looked at me for a moment, and I didn't know what I was supposed to say.

"There's a blanket on the side of that chair over there," she gestured across the room.

Fetching the blanket, I tucked it carefully around Clara, before standing back, my hands in my pockets. Until I remembered.

Quickly, I went in search of a book. I had no paper. Finding one with a blank page, before ripping the page out and scribbling down an address for a P.O. box we had here in Seattle.

Returning to Clara, I carefully tucked it into her hand, along with her forgotten photograph.

"Thank you Sarah."

Then I paid for the book.  
And I left.

Without any music or books.

And tomorrow I would be in Ireland. On the coast, perhaps.  
Or maybe I would go somewhere such as Egypt, or Australia. Play the part of a traditional vampire.

Either way, I was leaving.

My family thought it was best for me, and I though it was best for them.  
I would go.

But suddenly,

I forgot about leaving.

And I forgot about my family.

I forgot about

hatred and

pain

beliefs or

music

honor

morals

Or

My Promises.

And I caught the scent of something

Like flowers.  
And Heaven.

but mostly like

damnation.


End file.
